


A Chill that Eats your Soul

by Bass0w0n



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Be happy, Blood Loss, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hoth is Cold (Star Wars), Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mando'a, No Beta We Die Like Clones, Touch-Starved, im the one who puts vod in every sentence, it's more like cuddling tho, only a little tho, this fic doesn't even say vod once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:42:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26774587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bass0w0n/pseuds/Bass0w0n
Summary: This takes place as a result of the time on Hoth where Wolffe gets his eye taken out by the Ventress, no explicit descriptions of injury.
Relationships: Plo Koon & CC-3636 | Wolffe, Plo Koon/CC-3636 | Wolffe
Comments: 6
Kudos: 81





	A Chill that Eats your Soul

His General was oh so warm underneath all of his robes, which he has graciously parted to hold Wolffe closer, sheltering them both from the harsh blizzards of Hoth. Plo has his Commander completely in his lap using his robes to cocoon them both against the freezing wind. Wolffe can’t help but sink into the embrace going completely lax on top of his General, letting the Kel Dor move him as he pleases.  


It’s so warm and comfortable, and Wolffe is so exhausted, his General wouldn’t mind if he took a little rest would he, just a small nap.  


“No no no, you can’t rest now Commander, I need you.” Clawed hands both rough and equally toasty travel up to hold Wolffe’s face as Plo maneuvers him into making eye contact. When did he take off his helmet? Plo’s face is scrunched up in concern, claws lightly tracing this cheekbone on the right side. Wolffe’s eye aches as Plo does this, but he can’t remember why it would do that, perhaps he got hit harder than he thought.  


“General ‘m fine, no need to fuss.” Wolffe lifts a hand to Plo’s brow and starts trying to ease the lines out of his General’s face. Stressing was his job, not Plo’s.  


“Wolffe, you’ve lost a lot of blood, and we need to get a medic before you succumb to the cold.” What? When did he get injured, Wolffe doesn’t remember being injured? Considering that Wolffe has no idea what Plo is talking about, it probably isn’t all that bad, just a blaster burn he needs to guard against the elements. Plo is fussing with him again, wrapping some cloth around his head for some reason. When he was done Wolffe was perfectly happy to just lean into the hand that had stayed on his cheek. So warm.  


“I’m sorry my dear, I should have done better, this should have never happened.” An odd clicking noise was coming from Plo’s mask, that’s very confusing, how is he doing that? The hand that was still supporting Wolffe’s face was now stroking his cheek idly with a thumb. Wolffe can’t remember the last time he had been treated with such kindness. His General’s mood was confusing though, they had both survived worse so there shouldn’t be a need to be so upset, they had both walked away from Ventress alive.  


Wolffe was starting to feel very sleepy again, a kind of light-headed sleepy that meant he probably hadn’t gotten enough food or water that day. The Commander pushes Plo’s hand away from his face in favor of resting his head on the Kel Dor’s shoulder. The clicking picks up in volume, or maybe it just seems like that now that Plo’s mask was right next to his ear. The General’s neglected hand coming up to card through ice stiffened curls, normally so soft and light.  


“I didn’t want to risk moving you but I fear I must, we can’t continue waiting for the medics to find us.” His clawed hands move to pull Wolffe impossibly closer to him, wrapping the rest of the robes securely around them both before moving to support his Commander so that he could stand with the trooper basically plastered to him.  


Wolffe tries to move his head to face Plo but gets distracted by a rather large red stain he doesn’t remember seeing when he laid his head down. It isn’t the General’s blood, his blood is thick and yellow, this is thinner and bright red. Perhaps he had injured Ventress in battle.  


Plo’s movements were awkward, mostly due to Wolffe’s position and weight, but he seemed to be moving swiftly, even a glance over the shoulder he was pressed against made him nauseous, the blur of the snow too bright and distracting. Wolffe tucks his face more firmly against the junction between his Generals neck and shoulder, avoiding looking at the ground at all. The mystery blood seems to have spread, it makes Wolffe oddly proud to think that he got the darjettii bad enough to make her bleed this much.  


The harsh jerking of his General stumbling makes Wolffe peel his eyes open again with the jarring movement. When did he close them? His General seems to have lost his footing, now crouching low in an effort to keep both him and his Commander from falling into the cold snow.  


“ _Alor._ ” Wolffe’s voice is dim and harsh like he hasn’t had water for weeks.  


“Yes my Wolffe, I’m sorry but we must have haste.” Plo’s labored breathing is accented by the filters of his mask. Master Plo who is normally in complete control of both himself and his environment was now struggling to control his own breathing.  


Before Wolffe had received his Jetti he was educated on how to take care of him, what he eats, what he breathes, and how to stop him from dying. One of the chief concerns was that the mask could not handle excessive moisture or too much demand, this could lead to asphyxiation or oxygen exposure.  


Wolffe brings one shaking hand up to where he can barely see the filters on Plo’s mask and tries to gently brush away the frost and snow build up. Afterward, he would try to clear his own eyes to get rid of the awful blurriness.  


“ _Alor, slowly._ ” At least his voice was a little stronger this time, but still very weak. His Jetti is leaning into the trembling hand that is slowly chipping away at the built-up frost and ice, making a low whistling noise Wolffe can’t remember ever hearing before.  


“Master Fisto had best be here soon my dear, or else I fear-” the rest of the General’s statement was drowned out by the wind and the ever-growing amount of clicks as Wolffe is repositioned so that they are once again sitting to allow Plo to catch his breath. This new stillness and the oddly soothing melody of wind and whistling is the final straw that leads Wolffe off to sleep. Completely comfortable in the warmth his General provided him, practically swaddled in the Jetti’s robes, protected from the raging storms of Hoth. Wolffe can’t remember the last time he was this comfortable; at least now, like this, he could die in peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Jetti=Jedi  
> Darjetti=Sith  
> Alor=leader, or in this case General
> 
> Everyday Texy doesn’t touch the Painted doc, I add more  
> What the fuck is this you ask? I don’t know, I'm completely off the shits and I had the urge for fluff and angst. I already have an angst fic in progress as well as a slow burn and I was tired of dancing around touching.  
> Honestly, this is Texy’s fault for not only employing the no touching rule to my fics, _but also leaving me alone for so long_  
>  Is this part of that weird Painted thing you both are doing? Prolly not, this is so fucking needy and there are so many fuzzy ass feelings in this that it doesn’t conform with the timeline slow burn. I just wanted some fucking serotonin for my troubles okay.


End file.
